Lock the Gate
by Kagu-tsuchi-13
Summary: California turned Ohio resident Quinn Fabray thought that she was going to hate her new home. At least that was until she discovered an interesting secret about her neighbor when she snuck onto her property to skinny dip in her pool. G!P
1. Welcome to the Neighborhood

Damn this humidity!

That was the only thought on young Quinn's mind as she walked through the unfamiliar cul-de-sac.

This was all thanks to her mother, who had refused to turn on the air conditioner, claiming that their electric bill would sky rocket—even after Quinn repeatedly complained about how it felt like the Sun was moving closer. And yes, Quinn was well aware that the Earth revolved around the Sun and not vice versa, but she had wanted to be dramatic.

Alas, it had not worked as you probably already figured out. Her mom had still refused to turn it on—and instead told her to go out for a walk, claiming that it would not only help Quinn cool down but get to know the neighbors as well.

Neither of those things were happening. And she had been a bit surprised about the latter, having been expecting the neighbors to be sitting on their porches in rocking chairs, sipping on iced tea while fanning themselves and saying: "I do declare."

Okay, not really. But that would have been awesome. And it would have made this move almost bearable.

The move.

How could her mother have just sprung it on her like that? She had been forced to leave behind the beautiful California, as well as her old school and acquaintances. The only silver lining of the whole matter was that they had moved before school started, so there wouldn't be any awkward mid-year transfer shit. That was especially bad when you had non-transferable credits that would hurt you when you wanted to get into an ivy league school. Which also reminded her that she had to sign up for yet another extracurricular if she even wanted a chance to get into her college of choice, Yale.

But she would think about that later—when she didn't feel like she was in a sauna.

* * *

Quinn found herself panting. The humidity seemed to get worse the farther she walked. It soon became too much to manage, and she was forced to stop to, once again, peel her sweat soaked shirt from her torso. She would just ditch it entirely, had it not been for the fact that she did not have a bra on underneath.

Why could guys go shirtless and girls couldn't? Especially given the fact that some of the men around here had bigger breasts than the women. She shook her head, thinking it was unfair as she wrung out as much of the sweat as she could. She likened that she had collected enough to fill up a drinking glass—not that she would ever consider drinking it—though she would gladly offer it to her mother.

Once done, she was about to turn back around—and would have—had it not been for something catching her eye. She had came to a whole street of expensive and nicely maintained homes; all that were a great deal nicer than the ones on her own street.

She just had to check them out. Clearly, these were the upper-crust in this shithole town.

And it didn't take long for her to be proven right. Each house she passed seemed to be nice than the previous. Rather surprising, but not unheard of. This dump, Lima she believed, had a very low cost of living. No doubt due to the fact that there were virtually no jobs to be had. Which in turn was owed to all the big corporations around here: Walmart, Target, Sears—also known as the destroyer of small businesses.

And then she found the one; the house that was in a league of it's own. In spite of the rather large fence surrounding the perimeter, she was still able to take it in. Though she wasn't an expert by any means, she figured it to be old colonial with some more modern designing—and perhaps a touch of oriental thrown in.

And would you look at that—a mailbox shaped like a miniature version of the house. Now there were people who didn't give a fuck about saving money. Or they had so much of it that they could waste it on frivolous shit. From the looks of it either was plausible.

She very well had to know who it was that owned such a home. Her father always did say that it was good to be in cahoots with the higher ups; it could really get you out of a tight squeeze.

Her father.

The sudden passing thought of him brought up painful memories that were still still fresh in her mind. And no matter how many times that her mother assured her that it was not her fault, she still blamed herself. Why had she said yes when Tommy offered her that margarita? And why did she accept his offer to go upstairs? And most importantly, why did she believe him when he said: "just the tip"?

She just knew that if she had said no that her father would still be at home, smoking his pipe and complaining about how Americans are losing all their jobs thanks to companies outsourcing to India.

When she realized that she was depressing herself far more than this horrid humidity, she shook her head to snap herself out of her self inflicted daze. She did it rather violently at that; almost as if doing so could rid her brain of the retched memories.

Once her composure was regained, as much as possible anyway, she resumed her original task and started searching for the name of the mystery people that lived in such luxury.

Twenty seconds worth of searching later, she ended up finding many names, more precisely: fag, queer, homo, and butt-fucker. And call her crazy, but she had strong hunch that none of them was a family name.

A bit more searching and she came upon Queer-Berry. The Berry part was written in red and was very neat and professional; a strong contrast to the queer and hyphen which was written in black and done very sloppily.

Given this hard new evidence, she was led to believe that Berry was the surname of the resident or residents that lived here. And combined with the numerous slurs, it would not be far-fetched to assume that they were gay and of the male nature.

Now on to more pressing matters. Or to be more specific—now it was time to do a little snooping. It would not be an easy task—due to the enormous picket fence that surrounded the perimeter of the Berry home.

Quite an obstacle. But nothing that Quinn Fabray couldn't handle.

* * *

Rachel uttered a loud sigh as she readjusted the large towel that was currently wrapped around her nude body. A cold shower had been her attempt to cool down. And while it had worked, she was already feeling the intense humidity in the air that seemed to be quickly evaporating the moistness on her skin.

She could turn the A.C. on, but that would make her a hypocrite, seeing as how she had chastised her fathers for leaving it on so much, claiming that it killed innocent birds that helped spread seeds throughout the country.

Sometimes it sucked being such a caring environmentalist.

Her only other option was the pool. But as much as she would like to go for a swim, she couldn't—since she didn't have a clean bathing suit. And it wasn't like she could go in without one.

Or could she?

That made her stop and think.

She had never gone in the pool completely nude. She had once gone in topless, but only because she had gotten a bad sunburn on her back and the straps from her top aggravated it.

But to go in completely nude. That had never been something that she had even considered; especially when you factored in a certain condition of hers.

That made the thing that she was concealing under her towel rise up a bit.

Little Rachel—also known as the thing that kept her away from swimming in public places. Mostly because they did not make female bathing suits that could accommodate a woman that had male sex organs.

Sure, she could have worn swim trunks, but that would have roused suspicion from her peers. And more importantly, swim trunks were ugly; Rachel liked to feel sexy. And if that meant only having to swim in the confines of her fenced in backyard, then so be it.

Now she just had to find a way to keep herself cool for the time being.

* * *

So there was an obstacle that Quinn Fabray couldn't handle. Big deal.

But you had to give her points for trying. In the span of ten minutes, she had already attempted and failed to climb the fence, dig underneath it and come up the other end, and even take a running leap and scale the top while doing a few gymnastic flips. All of which ended in predicted disaster—and in one case a very sore butt.

Now with her options running thin, she started examining the workmanship to see if there were a few loose boards that could be removed and allow herself to squeeze through. A bit 50s cliched, but desperation did things to people.

"Fuck this quality material!" she cursed aloud, having realized that this was one sturdy fence that looked like it could hold up for another twenty to thirty years, easy.

That was it. There was just no possible way around this fence. She might as well just head home. It was not like—

Her thoughts were interrupted by a loud clacking sound. It was a very familiar sound; it almost sounded like a gate opening and closing.

No. It couldn't. There was no way that—

.

.

.

the gate had been open the entire time.

Without saying a word, she walked up to it and went right on through. Later, she would likely laugh at the irony of the situation.

* * *

Damn pool. Why was it mocking her so?

Rachel had been trying, and failing, to get her mind elsewhere. She had read her sheet music, hummed the orchestra to her favorite Broadway numbers, and even did a acoustic version of Taylor Swift's _Fifteen _for her stuffed animals. None that helped in the slightest.

Uttering her fifth sigh of the night, Rachel took hold of her towel and walked outside, slamming the screen door behind her as she stepped out. She could feel the cold ground against her bare feet; it gave her immense pleasure as the coolness sent tingles up her body.

Saddly, that was the only pleasure she was getting. The humidity was even worse outside than inside. A fact that she owed to her fathers having had the air conditioner on before they had departed for their business trip earlier.

What a scene that had been with them both rushing about with all their last minute checking and such. Rachel had mostly stayed out of their way, only speaking when she assured them both that she would be fine and would not throw a wild party—which no one would come to anyway—while they were gone.

It made her wonder how they would feel about their daughter skinny dipping in the pool that was built by the finest Ukrainian construction workers. Not that she was considering that; it was the farthest thing from her mind. She was merely going to check to make sure that it was still there. Because that was what responsible girls that were left in charge did.

Along the way, she caught that one of them had forgotten to lock the gate. She wished that they would remember to. Any creep could sneak onto their property, and they wouldn't even know it.

* * *

Now these were some gay men with class.

That had been Quinn's first thought when she had saw the huge pool that these men had. Large, beautifully done ceramic, and even a diving board.

She would kill to try it out; it's very presence reminded her of this terrible humidity and how she lacked anything of the sort to provide her with long term amenity.

So, what was stopping her? Nothing—unless you counted the fact that it was a felony.

But if you wanted to be all technical and shit, she was already trespassing. Even factoring in the lack of no trespassing sign, the huge fence was a dead giveaway that these men did not want people on their property.

No, she couldn't—too damn risky. She would just continue to admire it from the deck. And who knew, maybe the moon would use it's gravity to make a giant wave that would splash her. That was how tides worked. Or something to that nature. Astrology or Astronomy or whatever that shit was called never was her strong suit.

She looked at the water again. So calm and peaceful. A nice dip would be even better than having the air conditioner on at it's highest level.

Now that she thought about it, if these men were home they would have noticed her out here by now. And there was no one else to give a rebuttal—so it was settled.

Snickering at her own logic, she went about stripping herself of her clothes. First she peeled her shirt off her skin, which was now more perspiration than cotton. Once the disgustingly drenched fabric was off, she moved on to her shoes, shorts, and panties—setting them all into a patio chair.

Now fully nude, she stood at the edge, trying to remember how to execute a swan dive, having not done so since Jr. Olympics Camp. When she couldn't remember, she opted to just jump in.

"Geronimo!" she said, though not loud enough so anyone could hear, just before she made impact with the water.

She realized, sometime after her body made impact, that she was more than a little rusty when it came to diving. Not that she cared. The water felt amazing. She would love to stay under all night and then some. But that was not an option—as she found that she needed oxygen badly.

"Oh yeah," she said, after having came up and spit out the mouthful of water that she had acquired. "This is just what I needed."

She continued to float for a bit, not really in the mood to swim any laps or try anymore fancy moves. When that got boring, she opted to dive again, hoping to see if she could break her old record of being under for a minute and seventeen seconds.

* * *

_No one can see you, _Rachel told herself over and over again as she continued to firmly clutch the towel, taking each step as if a giant storm would blow it away if she let go for even a second.

She finally reached her destination and started repeatedly giving herself pep talks—similar to what she had done back during the Spring Formal when she gave a one woman performance of _Seasons of Love—while _slowly loosening her grip on the fabric until she had only a weak grasp of it.

___I can do this_, she thought, forcing her hands to outstretch completely. But before the towel had even hit the ground, Rachel had braced herself as if a catastrophe of global proportions was going to happen.

And after approximately three seconds worth of standing completely nude, she came to the conclusion that it was possible to be naked in the outdoors without negative repercussions.

Though her celebration was cut short by the sound of bubbles. A lot of bubbles. Where were said bubbles coming from?

Duh.

She turned her gaze to the pool, every ounce of her earlier fear having returned with reinforcements. Then, in a blink of an eye, something shot out of the pool at near the speed of sound and launched itself fifty feet upwards.

.

.

.

Okay, she might have been exaggerating. There was a possibility that it might have been at the average speed of a person emerging from underwater. And they may not have launched themselves into the air, but they did make a pretty good sized splash.

Either way, it was enough to make her scream out: "Ahh!"

That seemed to startle the intruder because they also screamed.

This little screaming battle continued until the intruder finally stopped and spoke. "Who are you?"

Rachel froze in her tracks. Was this person seriously asking who she was? "Who are you?" she retaliated.

"I asked you first."

"This is my home."

"Oh, I didn't know that."

This was going superbly. Rachel started calculating how fast she could run inside and dial 911. Though she also had to consider the option that the criminal in the pool could have a weapon on them. Best to check. "Could you possibly get out of there?" Rachel asked, trying to sound forceful but not demanding, just in case.

"Okay," they responded, not appearing to be upset or angry.

Once the person started climbing out, Rachel got a very crucial piece of evidence; this person, clearly female, was not wearing any clothes.

Her eyes nearly popping out of their sockets, Rachel gave her the stare down. But she definitely wasn't checking out this woman—who on close inspection, had a very tantalizing body. She just needed to assert her authority. Yeah, that was it.

Rachel waited until the girl was out completely before she spoke. "Why were you in my pool, And more importantly, why were you in my pool...___naked_?"

"It's hot out," she responded with a casual shrug—as if this justified the fact that she was trespassing, not to mention devoid of clothing.

Rachel was starting to get furious; the nerve of her. Something was going to have to be done. Maybe she could—

"Hey, your dingy is twitching."

"Huh?" Rachel said, before it dawned on her that the girl in front of her was not the only one that had her privates in plain view. This was followed by glancing down to confirm that what that girl had said was true. And seeing that it was, Rachel started silently chastising it for choosing this very inappropriate moment to start growing. She would not want the girl in front of her to think that she was the reason that she was almost halfway erect. That could really send the wrong message.

"I guess someone is happy to see me," the girl said, a small smirk appearing.

Too late for that. "No, it just does that when I am stressed," Rachel stated, quickly putting her hands over her now almost fully erect member, while silently praying that it would go back down.

The girl must have thought that that was hilarious, because she started breaking out into a giggling fit. It made Rachel uneasy. Why did this girl think her having an erection was so funny? Also, why had she not questioned the fact that she has a penis in the first place?

"Why aren't you weirded out?" Rachel asked, still keeping her hands firmly over her privates.

That made her stop her giggling. Or at least enough to answer. "About?"

"About?" Rachel screeched, taking almost all of her will power to contain herself. "About this." She reluctantly removed her hands to let this girl get another look at Little Rachel who had still not gone back down.

"What is weird about a guy having a penis?"

Rachel felt like she had just been punched in the stomach by Wladimir Klitschko—who she unfortunately knew thanks to Leroy's obsession with boxing. Over the last several years, she had been insulted about many a thing, but none compared to this. Especially since this girl did not even sound like she meant it as an insult. "You...you...you..think I am a ___man_!" Rachel cried, feeling as if her whole world was crumbling around her.

"You mean you aren't?" she gasped, sounding genuinely surprised.

"No!" Rachel declared firmly. "How can you think that? I have breasts." She guided her hands over her small round breasts to orchestrate this point.

"Those are breasts? I just though you had weird looking pecs."

This was getting to be too much. "What about my voice?"

"Hey, with the amount of estrogen in today's drinking water a lot of men sound feminine."

Rachel wouldn't admit it, but she had a point there. "Well, I am a woman."

"So you are a woman but you have penis?"

"I have both," Rachel responded, looking anywhere but at her. She did not like that she was sharing so much personal information with someone that she was furious with not two minutes ago.

That seemed to peek the girl's interest. "Really, can I see?"

Rachel's eyes widened yet again. Did this girl know the meaning of the word boundaries? "No."

The girl didn't seem to like this response as she started moving toward Rachel. "Come on," she said, her voice having grown rather husky.

"Wait," Rachel started, but never got to finish, as she soon found a pair of hands on her hips.

"You know," the girl said, "up close there is no mistaking. You are way too pretty to be a dude."

"Thanks," Rachel said, feeling slightly captivated by that. Not that it made up for her earlier assumptions.

A pulsing feeling in her lower region then let Rachel know that she was not the only one moved by this girl's compliment.

"Anytime," she responded, running her right hand over Rachel's cheek.

Try as she must, Rachel could not look away from this girl. She was rather attractive with her little button nose, golden locks of hair, and hypnotic green eyes that you could get lost in.

The twitching was now getting worse. Combine that with the fact that this girl was about two inches and a few movements away from making Rachel lose her virginity. Realizing this, she started slowly backing up. Only for the girl to do the same. This made Rachel back up some more. And once again, the girl replicated her actions.

Rachel started backing up a third time when the girl suddenly called out, "Hey, watch where you are—"

It was too late. Before Rachel had even realized it, she had stepped back too far and lost her balance. She could not regain it in time and ended up falling into the pool, creating a good sized splash—even for her skinny body.

* * *

Quinn looked down in amusement over what had just happened. This sure had been some evening. Now she was realizing that she should head home. Spotting a towel, she snatched it up and wrapped it around her damp body. "Hope you don't mind if I borrow this," she called out to the girl who was splashing about and looking pissed.

Quinn didn't wait for an answer as she headed back to the gate, stopping long enough to grab her shoes and panties. She thought about getting her shirt and shorts—but relented; they were old and getting worn out. Plus, her shirt was probably so ripe that not even her mother's numerous cleaning agents could save it.

Once redressed and her borrowed towel readjusted, Quinn took one more glance at the pool. "This was fun, we should do it again," she yelled out before taking her leave.

On the way back, she found herself clouded by thoughts. She had never expected the men that lived there to have a girl, much less one that appeared to be around the same age as herself. Not to mention the other thing; who would have have ever imagined it—a girl with a working penis. It was something else.

And was it wrong that she found it a bit...hot?!

Okay, so that was wrong on so many levels. But she didn't care. And even more-so, she was going to find a way to meet this girl again.


	2. Why the Caged Bird Sings

"_Nobody knows the trouble I feel!" _Quinn sang in despair. She looked at the bars—metaphorically speaking—on her window. She felt like a caged bird, and she wanted to know why it sang—to paraphrase Maya Angelou.

She was a prisoner in her room thanks to her mom—who had a problem with her staying out so late. That and the fact that she came home in a towel with half her clothes missing. And of course the warden...erm...her mother was not about to let that go unpunished. Hence why she was now forced to spend the rest of the week up here, only being let out of her cell for meals and to lift weights in the courtyard.

Yes, that was an exaggeration. But when you are 16 going on 17 (not unlike the song) and confined in a hot room, without Internet, you might as well be in the slammer.

She took another look out the window—her eighty-seventh one today. She should know, having been counting. Not much going on in the outside world: a few kids throwing around one of those cheap, colorful balls (this one blue or possibility teal, perhaps aqua; when you are bored you think of these things) that you can buy at Walmart or the dollar store.

Tearing herself away from the scene that she was pretending was the World Series of Plastic Ball Throwing, she flopped down on her unmade bed and buried her face in her top pillow that was covered with her favorite Pokemon pillow case—the one that had all the Pokemon as opposed to just Pikachu.

Turning on her side, she looked at her teddy bear, Scruffy—named because his fur was very scruffy; that and the fact that the tag said it was his name. "This must be how the Hunchback of Notre-Dame felt," she said to him, holding up his furry little arms to his sewn mouth as if he was engrossed deeply in her conversation. "And at least Quasimodo had those gargoyles to keep him company."

"Only in the Disney version," said a voice that startled the hell out of Quinn.

Once she was sure that she was not hallucinating from her severe isolation from fellow humankind, as well as confirming that her bear hadn't gained sentient life and started talking back to her (which was good as he slept in the same bed and knew what went on the nights that she got bored), Quinn turned her head up to see her mother standing at the door, one hand on her hip, the other clutching a cleaning rag. "Is it time for my bread and water?" She made no attempt to hide her disdain for being locked away while her precious youth slipped away.

"Hilarious," her mom responded, using the slightly sarcastic tone that she used whenever she was annoyed. "But it is about dinner time. I don't want to cook tonight."

"So, in addition to draining me of my freedom, you are also going to starve me to death? What's next, are you going to cover me in fish guts and toss me into a river of piranha?"

"You better change your attitude, or I am not going to let you go out and get dinner."

That made Quinn bolt up. "You mean I can leave this hellhole?"

"Language—and yes. I got a coupon from this place called Breadstix. With a X."

Quinn unintentionally found herself scrunching her face; she did not like the sound of a place like that, probably had rats. "Can't we get something from Taco Bell or Wendy's? I would even settle for Carl Jrs."

"It's called Hardees here. And no, I want to try some local cuisine."

Quinn raised her eyebrow that she hadn't trimmed since her imprisonment—local cuisine? Did her mother think that they moved to Japan or something? It was very doubtful that Ohio food was that different from California food—other than likely containing more trans fat and artificial preservatives, judging by the residents, many who weighed as much as your average offensive lineman.

Her mother went on, "But if you would rather eat cereal tonight then—"

"Alright, I am going," Quinn interrupted. She snatched her car keys off her desk and ran past her mother before she could change her mind. She had been halfway out the door when she remembered that she needed money and was forced to go back.

_X—X—X—X—X_

_Hurry back! I am starving, _flashed on the screen of Quinn's out of date Blackberry. Quinn could see it even from the the passenger floorboard of her Beetle—which was where it was, having fallen sometime after she swerved to avoid the jackass in the full size F150 that couldn't make up his fucking mind about which lane he wanted..

She wanted, but refrained, from responding to her mother's message with some choice words. She hated when someone claimed that they were starving. People in impoverished third-world countries torn by war and famine were starving; a middle aged woman who hadn't eaten since her three o'clock snack of Double Stuffed Oreos and milk was not starving by any means of the word. (In fact, if it wasn't for the fact that she was already in deep shit, Quinn might have texted back that her mother didn't look like she had been missing any meals since her father filled for divorce.)

And it wasn't Quinn's fault that she got lost. The directions that the man at the gas station gave her were terrible; she must have driven by the BB&T three times.

On the verge of calling it quits and just going somewhere else, she spotted a large, red X that flashed with weak illumination. And, upon closer inspection, revealed itself to be the place that she had hopelessly been searching for; not that it was much of a victory, judging by what a dump this place appeared to be with it's badly painted exterior and sign that was missing letters—making it read BedSX. That could be interrupted in the wrong way if you had a dirty mind—which Quinn did.

But she was here. And after locating a parking spot, which wasn't easy, she parked her car, making sure to lock all the doors on her way out.

Once inside, she went about informing the moronic cashier about what she wanted. It took three tries and a shit load of restraint on her part to keep from jumping behind the counter and strangling the practically brain dead teenager to death.

"It will be twenty minutes," he informed in his "I don't really give a fuck since I get minimum wage and just smoked a bowl before my shift started voice".

Refraining from giving him the middle finger for fear that he would spit in her food if she did so, she snatched the salad tin to go make the salad that her mom wanted in her vain attempt to eat healthy—or at least give the illusion that she did.

In her journey to get to the salad bar, the only thought on her mind was _man, this place is a dump. _The bland gray walls—furnished with a few paintings of sunsets—was depressing and seemed to be taking away her appetite; quite the opposite of the warm and inviting atmosphere that a restaurant was supposed to provide.

But it beat sitting in her room counting the cracks in the foundation. Not by a lot...but just enough.

She held on to that thought while picking up the tongs that lie in the massive jungle of lettuce—though it would have probably been more sanitary to just pick up some of the browning leaves with her bare hands. She then went down the row, loading up the not very large pan with garbanzo beans, beets, cottage cheese, and other gross things that middle aged woman pretended to enjoy. And in the midst of attempting to scoop up some croutons, she saw something even more interesting than the three flies floating in the thousand island dressing.

She took another glance. There was no mistaking that the girl that was piling her plate full of alfalfa sprouts was the same girl that she had her late night encounter with. Quinn would know those silky brown locks and long, gently muscled legs anywhere. Not to mention that above average sized, yet still oddly appealing. Nose. Other than her you know what, that had been the thing that stood out most to Quinn.

Ironically enough, even though Quinn had nothing to do but think and read her Beverly Cleary books, she had not thought about the girl since that night. She did not know why—it was not every day that you ran into a girl that had...one of _those_.

Well this was her chance. She just had to speak to her again; maybe even arrange to hang out, preferably in that awesome pool. "Hey, Pool Girl," Quinn said, having slipped next to her. She had almost called her Penis Girl—fitting, but not exactly appropriate in this public dump.

Judging by the loud scream that the girl uttered—and the fact that she sent spinach and miniature tomatoes everywhere, earning an assortment of glares from the other dinning patrons—it was safe to assume that she was surprised by Quinn's greeting. "What do you want?" she demanded, clutching her chest in an overly dramatic fashion, similar to the way that Fred Sanford did when he had "the big one" on a weekly basis.

"Just wanted to say hi. I almost didn't recognize you with your clothes on," Quinn said, feeling her lips start to curve into a grin. She found herself undressing Pool Girl with her eyes, still having a semi-vivid memory of that night.

Pool Girl seemed to pick up on this. "Just so you know, I don't do that. Well I did. But that was the first and only time."

Quinn didn't know whether or not to believe this but chose not to push it. "Why don't we hang out?" No use beating around the bush; Quinn Fabray was a busy woman—plus her mom would bitch her out if she took too long.

The look on Pool Girl's face right after she uttered those words. Her expression turned from shocked to down right pissed off. "You broke onto my property. You...you contaminated my freshly chlorinated pool with your filthy, _naked_ body. And then you insinuated that I was a _man—_and now you want to hang out with me?!"

"So that's a no? Yes? Maybe?"

"I will call the cops if you ever come near my property again," she said with a huff. Before Quinn could say anything else, she grabbed her now mostly empty plate and stomped away, her long black skirt fluttering with every stomp.

Quinn waited till she was out of visible sight before turning back around—ignoring the looks she got in the process. _No big loss_, she thought as she started filling up the dressing cup, making sure to stay clear of the thousand island. She had only had two short encounters with the girl and from both she got a strong vibe that the girl was a drama queen; not to mention a freak with that massive nose and the other thing.

Of course she also knew that she was just telling herself that—because it was easier than admitting that she was hurt that she got shut down so quickly and harshly.

X—X—X—X—X

Quinn slurped up the rest of the Diet Dr Pepper in her glass, enjoying the sound that the ice made when it came in contact with the straw. Leaning her calves over the footrest of the old couch in desperate need of a detailing, she flipped through the DirecTV guide, hoping that she missed something that could occupy the next four hours of her evening.

"I told you that weren't grounded anymore. Why are you still lounging around?" her mom asked, standing at the line that divided the kitchen and living room, a wine glass in her hand.

"Nothing to do," Quinn responded unenthusiastically, slumping further into the couch for emphasis. She had only left the house twice since her grounding ended—both times to run errands.

"Go to that mall the neighbors told me about. Lots of girls your age—and boys." There was something about the way her mother said that last part. Like she thought that there was something wrong with her, just because she hadn't conversed with anyone of the male nature since...it happened.

"Gas prices are too high. Mall's charge a shi..." she started, before getting a glare, "...crap load of money. I am being economically responsible by staying at home."

"I think we can afford it. You know I got a promotion."

Of course she knew. That was why they left their beautiful—albeit cramped—San Diego apartment to come to this shithole.

"I still rather not," Quinn said, changing the channel to Disney—which was currently playing a Wizards of Waverly Place rerun: a show she didn't even like that much but would still feign interest in to get her mother off her back.

"Quinn, sweetie," her mom said, using the voice that she used the time that Quinn was fourteen and went for a joyride in the Explorer, "I love you, you know that. But you have been here every single day. I need my space."

"Well you grounded me from going out," Quinn responded, turning the volume up a bit. She hoped that her mother would realize that it was in fact her doing that made her grow sick of her own daughter and leave so Quinn could return to her self loathing, even though she knew that that was a long shot. When has an adult ever admitted that they were wrong? Ever?

"And now I am grounding you from staying in." Before Quinn could ask for clarification, she felt something land in her lap, and upon looking down, saw that it was several one dollar bills tied together with a rubber band. "Go have fun. And you better not come back before curfew."

Quinn was about to fight it—until she caught her mom's expression; it was the same one that she used on clients to let them know that she meant business. Loudly sighing to let her displeasure be known, she rose up, pocketing the wad of bills as she did. "I will go, but you cannot make me have a good time." She loudly stormed out the room, ignoring the arrogant smirk that her mother was sporting. It looked like she was going out, but she was sticking to her word—she was not going to have a good time.

X—X—X—X—X

_So far so good_, she thought, blowing on her cappuccino. It wasn't like she was deliberately avoiding fun; this was just a boring as fuck town. And it was not like she was going to find thrills and adventure in this Starbucks knockoff.

And just think...her mom forced her out of the house, just so she could drink wine, put on some soft music, and then—she was not about to finish that thought. Mothers weren't supposed to have..._urges_. That was...there wasn't a word for how disgusting it was.

Don't get Quinn wrong—she knew that adults had sex, possibly even for pleasure, though that was a little farfetched. And she even knew that if you were currently in the midst of a divorce, and had not felt the touch of a man in over a year, that you would have pent up..._urges_. Urges that would need to be tended to by means of... She shook her head, trying—in vain—to rid her brain of those thoughts. It had been bad enough the time that she walked in on her mother and her _special friend_. Since that retched encounter, Quinn could not look at a package of double A batteries without thinking that they were going for...that purpose.

Sighing, she brought her coffee cup to her lips and took a small sip, feeling the intensity of the scalding liquid as it struck against her tongue, likely scorching some taste buds, as well. Setting it back down, she took a look around the small coffeehouse—the Kidney Bean or something. It was rather empty, but that wasn't exactly a shocker. Besides her, who would be lame enough to spend the evening here?

She decided to find out—misery did love company, after all.

On first glance she saw nothing. The second look around she spotted a fairly muscular looking male handing out fliers by the biscotti. He looked about her age, maybe a little older. But what really caught her attention was the mohawk that he was sporting. Rather average mohawk—not three feet tall, spiked, or colored a wild color like pink or green. In spite of that, there was just something about it that compelled her to go over to him.

And so, after adding a little half and half to her drink and downing it in a single gulp (and not even caring that she burnt the roof of her mouth), she pulled back her chair and stood—feeling adrenaline pulse through her at the prospect of having a conversation with a bona fide male that wasn't about what she wanted on her Whopper.

The adrenaline wore off part way, and she almost turned tail. But then, and she couldn't quite place it, something kept pushing her forward. It might have been the harsh rejection from pool girl; or maybe the fact that her mother (possibly) thought that there was something wrong with her for essentially casting males out of her life. Either way it kept her going until she was standing no less than six inches from him. "Hey, there," she said, loudly. She felt out of her element, as she was used to guys making the first move and was never the one to introduce herself. "Uh—"

It took him a second to react, probably surprised that someone like her would just up and start talking to him, but he quickly regained his composure. "Noah Puckerman," he said, sticking out his beefy hand, "But you can call me the Puckster."

"I will definitely not do that." She also declined his offer to shake hands—mostly because she had no idea where it had been, and this guy did not look like he washed frequently. Or ever.

"Then just Puck it is. Which rhymes with—"

"I get it," she interrupted, already feeling like that she wasn't going to like him. Part of her wanted to make an excuse and leave now, but she ignored that part of herself and remained stagnant.

"So, is there a reason that you came over. I saw you checking me out earlier. Probably noticed my pecs. Been doing the bench press. And that machine where you squeeze the two bars together. I think it's called a pec dec." Damn! He was rambling, she thought. Now that part of her had escalated from a third to well over a half.

She feigned interest in whatever he was going on about—occasionally hearing the words protein, free weights, and steroids come up. Her boredom caused her to look at the table where a thick stack of papers—colored lime green—sat in a messy stack.

Mildly curious and completely bored, she skimmed the headline that had been typed in at least size 24 font and looked to be done in Verdana:

PUCKERMAN'S POOL CLEANING SERVICE

QUALITY WORK FOR LESS THAN THE OTHER GUY!

CASH ONLY.

"I see you noticed my business fliers," he suddenly said, nearly scaring the crap out of her.

"Yeah, I did," she agreed, picking up the top most flier to get a better read. She had been in the midst of reading when a realization hit her. "Would you by any chance happen to clean for the Berrys?"

He immediately raised his thick brow at the mention of the Berrys. "Those fruity men with the weird daughter. Yeah, they are some of my clients. Not my preferred clientele—if you know what I mean."

She had no idea what he meant—and really didn't give two fucks. Her mind started doing sixty, having already begun formulating a strategy as soon as she realized that this annoying guy, Puck or whatever, was her ticket to seeing the girl again. "So..." she started, piling the charm on thick; she pulled all the stops: flutter of eyelashes, slight pouting of the lips, pushing out her cleavage that was barely visible behind her Mighty Morphin Power Rangers t-shirt. "Do you think that you could get me onto their property?"

"No can do—that breaches client confidentiality. I would lose my license if I had one."

That did not break her spirit; she knew he wasn't going to come right out and help her—not while she was fully dressed, anyway. "You know, I find working men very sexy," she said, cranking the charm knob up to ten; she licked her lips suggestively and added in some Halle Berry styled Catwoman purring for good measure.

It seemed to do the trick, mostly. He began fidgeting and tugging on the collar of his MMA Elite tee. Quinn knew that she had him now—the only question that remained was: how long could he hold out?

"You are just flirting with me so that I will let you by the gate," he said, his voice no longer calm and cool—instead it was apprehensive and tense, like when she went on a pity date with that nerdy guy from the comic book store who thought that he was getting to second base (at least until Quinn broke all ten of his grabby fingers).

"Did it work?"

"Sadly...yes."

She could only smile in victory. So what if she got terrible cramps every month and made less money—being an attractive woman was like winning the jackpot of life.

X—X—X—X—X

"Nice evening out tonight," Rachel said to no one in particular, half her body leaned over her bedroom window. She had a perfect view of the pool from here—the water making the occasional ripple, so inviting.

She hadn't even considered going back in since the "incident" with that crazy blonde haired chick that trespassed and then...violated her—kind of. Damn that crazy girl...and her very jiggly Bs...and her long, smooth legs that seemed to—

Rachel suddenly felt a familiar stretching sensation. Even though she knew what it was (from experience), she looked down to see a small bulge forming in the crotch of her white panties with the pink polka dots. "Haven't you gotten me into enough trouble?" she scolded her dick, the horrid memories still running fresh in her mind.

That seemed to do the trick...mostly. It didn't go back down, but it didn't grow anymore, either. Little Rachel always was a fickle one. Sometimes it wouldn't come up; other times it wouldn't go way, even at inappropriate times—such as when a naked chick is just standing there in all her naked glory and your damn penis chooses that moment to introduce itself, giving the naked chick the impression that she was the reason for your impromptu boner. (Though Rachel knew that the girl was in fact the reason, but she didn't want the girl to know that select piece of information.)

Rachel steered herself to her desk where her lucky Troll Doll sat. She picked it up and took a moment to admire its green hair styled in a pony tail and its orange pumpkin outfit. It had been won by one of her dads (which one she couldn't remember) at the Halloween carnival when she was seven and had been a good luck charm ever since. (Not that that was saying much, given her shitty life and all.)

"Do you think I was too harsh on that girl?" she asked it, smoothing out its hair as she spoke. Since that encounter at Breadstix, she had been having some mild regrets about telling her off. Creep or not, it would still be nice to have someone to associate with.

She held up her doll in the light, gazing at its eyes with the little irises, as well as its grin and large nose (something she could relate to) while it continued to smile dumbly—since Trolls had no worries; they just had to stand there and be cute. Uttering the loudest sigh that her powerful vocal chords could muster, she carefully set it back down next to her song books and started doing a few laps around her room, mostly in hopes of clearing out the cluttered attic of her mind.

She could never figure out why, but it seemed like everyone disliked her. There was that freakishly tall boy that went out of his way to avoid her at school. Then there was the shy boy who didn't go out of his way to avoid her, but still made it clear that he didn't want her company. And even that Puckerman guy—who cleaned the pool—never said more than two words to her; that was especially shocking, considering they went to the same Temple.

She likened that her diva reputation could have something to do with it. That had been going on ever since she was forced to give up her part in the drama club's presentation of _Oklahoma_! after Mr. Ryerson and herself had some..."creative differences".

But she got her revenge. Oh, how she got her revenge. The image of him vainly trying to explain to the police that he did not touch that boy inappropriately came back. It brought a smile to her face as she recalled him screaming while they dragged him away, telling him that he had the right to remain silent—a right he was not upholding.

Though she almost felt bad that she got him fired—almost. The sympathy usually dissipated after she thought back to the callback and how he claimed that her rendition of _"I Cain't Say No" _was—in his words: "Flatter than the chest that you vainly conceal with that push-up and more tasteless than those Giani Bernini that went out of style two years ago."

A light gurgling noise pulled her out of her wonderful memories. She waited and heard it again; this time it was clear that it was her stomach making the agitation. Looks like it wasn't satisfied by a dinner of a vegan burger and carrot sticks and wanted to be fed again.

"Alright, guess I will fill you up," she said to it, lifting up her plain white tee—not to be confused with the band (that she did not care for) of the similar name—and patting it lightly, feeling against her abdominals that possessed no visible muscle.

Once downstairs and in the kitchen, she went about pouring out a handful of saltines onto a plate, followed by spreading out a generous amount of peanut butter on each one. She likened that she went through a jar a week; her dads were very vocal about her getting enough nutrients, especially protein.

She found it amusing but complied; mostly because she feared that they would force her to eat meat if she didn't—and that wasn't happening.

After she licked the last scrap of peanut butter off the plastic knife she had been using, she went to the fridge and pulled out her trusty carton of Silk—as nothing tasted better with peanut butter and crackers than an ice cold glass of soy milk.

Though when the carton only produced a few drops, she realized that she would have to go to the store to get more—something that she dreaded doing.

That may not seem like a big deal, but a lot—and she meant a lot—of trouble makers liked to loiter around the food stores. There were the Skanks that hung around the IGA to bum loose cigarettes. There were those potheads from the track team, who sat outside the Chevron station, giggling uncontrollably at anything. And worst of all, that retched Santana Lopez who—for no particular reason—loved to show up at just about anywhere and start shit with people like her. Rachel had had one of those encounters just last week—which ended with her having to pull three lobsters off herself.

But the shopping could be put off—possibly until her dads got back. She was in no hurry.

_I don't need any milk_, she thought, stuffing an entire cracker into her mouth and chewing intently. It was a nice taste: the saltiness of the cracker meshed well with the smooth and creaminess of the peanut butter. But, upon swallowing the medley of mixtures, she quickly realized that—thanks to the huge mound of peanut butter—it wouldn't be possible to finish this without something to wash it down.

"Dammit," she mumbled through her mouth that was becoming increasingly dry, forcing her to go back to the fridge and search some more.

It wasn't a difficult task; the fridge was nearly empty—save a few Tupperware containers and a box of Arm and Hammer. It appeared that her fathers liked to shop as much as she did. And beverage wise, the only thing that it contained was beer and wine coolers, both neatly lined up in perfectly straight rows—almost as if daring anyone to take one and mess up their symmetry.

Rachel stared at the alcoholic drinks intently. Well, one couldn't hurt...could it?

No, she decided. This was obviously a test. Her dads expected her to do shit like this when they were away. It was just like when she was fourteen and Leroy left the keys to his Acura lying on the coffee table, figuring that she would try to go for a joy ride. Though she did start the car—to roll the windows up, as it had looked like rain. Oh, the looks on their faces when they came back from the Pottery Barn.

"Nice try," she muttered, acting as if they could telepathically hear her. She slammed the door shut with her foot, hearing the numerous bottles of Heineken and Seagrams rattle as she did.

The dryness in her mouth got worse, almost to the point of excruciation. She was about to say fuck it and risk drinking the dreaded Lima tap water (the Pur filter had ran out two days ago), when she remembered that there were some sodas in the garage freezer, as Leroy always kept a few in there for whenever he worked on his 73 Dodge Challenger.

"Thanks, Daddy," she said aloud, again acting as if he was in this very room or had the means to communicate with her, just before she shuffled through the kitchen, utilizing some of her best dance moves to avoid the obstacles and scurry to the sliding door that lead outside.

It was then that it dawned on her that she was only in her practically see-through t-shirt and panties—not exactly appropriate outside attire.

Maybe I should go back upstairs and put on some shorts or something, she said to herself, considering the ramifications of going back out in a scantly clad state; memories of the crazy blonde chick ogling her nude body, as well as attempting to touch said nude body—and possibly more—ran through her head. It sent chills down her body, even in spite of the fact that it was rather humid inside.

_That girl, _she thought, the horrid memories of her animal like lustrous advancements replaying in her mind. Rachel had no idea what would have happened—had she not fallen into the pool when she did. Just think...what if Crazy Girl had caught her...and—

A rather painful twitch prevented her from finishing that thought. And though she didn't want to, Rachel looked down to see a bulge, much greater than earlier, protrude from the crotch area of her panties—the cotton fabric looking to be stretched to its limit.

"Damn you," she said aloud to her dick, having never detested the thing more than at this very moment. She had been doing her best to convince herself that she was not attracted to that horrible, horrible girl. But her penis kept reminded her that she did want to run her fingers through those silky golden looks and press her face between those bouncy breasts and see what the south of the border contained.

And it was not that she was homophobic—far from it. Having both sets of genitals—as well as two gay, Jewish fathers—she had been raised to be tolerant of everyone, regardless if she believed what they did or not. Plus, she was also a realist; it made far more sense for her to get with a woman, as a female would be less likely to be repulsed by her...condition than a man would. And the crazy girl clearly didn't react in a hostile manner; the opposite in fact.

_I think I was too harsh on that girl. So what if she trespassed and called me a man. I think I will talk to her the next time I see her,_ Rachel thought, looking down at her bulge. It had gone down slightly but was still erect enough to be palpable to anyone looking right at her. And that was a pretty impressive feat, considering that she wasn't exactly "well endowed", so to speak. She didn't know her exact measurements, but she knew that she was not "packing" by any sense of the word. It made her hope that the girl wasn't a size queen—otherwise she was in for a big disappointment.

Rachel couldn't help but chuckle at that as she opened the sliding door part way, hearing the loud sound it made when the glass slid. Pulling her skinny body through—no longer caring if she was scantly clad—she slowly trekked through the turf, enjoying the feel of the grass running against her bare feet. A slight breeze was blowing, making it noticeably cooler than a week ago, back when certain events took place.

The journey was not long...especially considering that the garage was twenty feet from the house, but she was in no hurry, having mostly recovered from her earlier peanut butter escapade. Along the way, she stopped to admire the marigolds that had been planted (but weren't doing so well), as well as the old tree-house that her dads "built" (actually paid some carpenters to do most of the work) for her back when she was seven and needed a place of solitude to sort her thoughts and such.

She took a better look at the domicile of wood; over the years the structure had weakened and the boards started to fall out. It made her wonder if it could still support a person. She hadn't been up there, or even attempted to go up, in years—though she knew that Leroy used to hide his prepackaged, cream filled cupcakes in a small chest under the loose floorboard.

No, there was no way that anyone could still go up there, she decided. And why would they want to?

X—X—X—X—X

"Get your damn knee out of my ribs," Quinn said as she gasped in agony, her body being pushed back even further. She could feel her innards being crushed, thanks to the cramped space that they were in. They had been in this position for twenty fucking minutes—all thanks to Noah here panicking when he saw the girl's silhouette; he had urged Quinn up the tree, claiming some bullshit about how he couldn't afford to lose a client.

"I can't help that I am so huge. Blame the free weights—and steroids," he said smugly. Quinn would have rolled her eyes, had she been able to move them.

"How long are we going to stay up here?" she asked, feeling her blood pressure rise (and her tolerance for the person next to her decline). As much as she wanted to see the girl again (which was a lot), she did not want to sit in a rickety structure with an annoying man-child hybrid.

"Just until it gets dark enough that I can escape unseen."

"That could be hours!" she gasped, suddenly feeling that even one more second with him would be too much. Her mind subconsciously started planning her escape; it would be difficult, seeing as his massive frame was blocking the door.

"Chill. Here, have one of these cupcakes I found," he said, holding out the fattening, chemical-induced snack food so close to her face that she could see the wavy lines of white frosting.

"Get that away from me," she retaliated, using her elbow (the only part of her that was free) to knock it out of his hands—it proceeding to roll down the slanted floor and fall somewhere down below.

"That was the last one," he said in a whiny voice, sounding even more like a child.

"Oh the humanity," she responded sarcastically, feeling slightly better that she was able to make him miserable, much like his sharp knees and oversized feet had been doing to her vital organs. Though they were far from even; she was definitely going to get back at him for dragging her into this mess—not even caring about the irony of the fact that she dragged him into her own mess to begin with.

X—X—X—X—X

"Damn, where is that stupid light?" Rachel asked as she struggled to guide herself in the dark. She lacked any of the nocturnal senses that mammals such as cats or bats possessed; a fact that showed as she repeatedly banged into objects—ones that hurt...a lot.

She started kicking herself for not thinking to bring a flashlight or her phone. And now she couldn't even go back, having been turned around more times than when she drove to Cleveland without a GPS. But she ventured on—crawled to be more accurate, thanks to having stubbed all of her toes and possibly drawn blood.

Then, on the verge of collapsing and sobbing in agony, she felt something...hard...and metallic. She would know that three thousands pounds of...whatever type of metal cars were made of anywhere. And for once, she was grateful to see—or more accurately feel—the three thousand pound, gas-guzzling monstrosity.

Very carefully, she hoisted herself up, the window being down allowing her to do so more easily. Once she was up and about, she reached in and turned on the headlights—which gave her just enough light to find and turn on the switch.

"And Rachel Berry said...let there be light," she declared, flipping the switch. It took a moment, but the dim overhead bulb came on and illuminated the large room with a weak glow. And after turning off the headlights, as she figured that a battery powering a 70s muscle car wouldn't last long, she finally made her way to the freezer, stepping over some very dirty tools that were strewn around the car in the process.

"Hope he has Fanta," she said to herself, lifting up the giant door. However, after pushing past a mess of popsicles and frozen pizzas, she was horrified to discover that there was not only no Fanta but no carbonated beverages whatsoever. In fact, the only thing drink wise was...beer.

No soda.

Just beer.

All of this work for beer.

To be fair, it was not the same beer as in the fridge. This beer looked like it was homemade, judging by the clear bottles that lacked any distinct labels.

Curious, she pulled one out to get a better look. Rather dark color, and she could see little chunks floating it it, which she assumed were hops. Clearly this beer was not brewed by an expert; more likely it was done by a guy with too much time on his hands and little in the area of knowledge of what he was doing. Hence why it was sitting at the bottom of the freezer—long forgotten about.

So forgotten about that it wouldn't hurt to try one.

She looked at the bottle, turning it over a few times; it probably tasted like crap, though she had nothing to base it against, having never tasted beer—not even the foam. And what kind of teen would she be if she didn't try a beer? Hell, most people her age were already chugging forties and puking their guts out; she was far behind.

That settled that...bottoms up.

_I can do this_, she assured herself as she used her shirt to loosen the cap, while simultaneously wondering why the caps don't just pop off like in the Bud Light commercials. She eventually got it off, with a lot of difficulty, and held the concoction up to her lips, still hesitant.

"Don't pussy out now," said a voice in her head that sounded an awful lot like Crazy Girl. And for some unexplainable reason, her voice seemed to give Rachel the push that she needed to hold her head back and down the liquid in one fell swoop.

Surprisingly, it wasn't as bad as she thought. Not good, but certainly not repulsive. The initial shock over, she finished the rest, leaving only a smile pile of the floating chunks—which had collected into a heap at the bottom of the bottle.

"What an adventure," she declared aloud, feeling high...either on the alcohol or adrenaline. She shut the freezer door and headed back out, taking the bottle with her, as it was important to never leave behind evidence at the scene of the crime.

She had been halfway back to the house when she stopped again, deciding to take another look at her tree house. It might have been the beer talking, but she felt like seeing if she could still climb up it.

Giggling precariously, she started up the foothold. The wood was articulate and splintery—something that did not feel pleasant on bare feet, but she didn't care and continued up, gripping tightly while avoiding all the loose nails that she saw.

"She's coming up. What do we do?" said a voice from out of nowhere, spooking Rachel and nearly causing her to lose her grip and fall.

"Don't look at me," said another voice, this one more familiar and feminine sounding.

Now Rachel knew something was up. She knew that she couldn't be drunk; no one could get drunk on one beer—except maybe a house elf, but they weren't real. It was clear that someone, or someones, was up there...and she didn't like it. "Show yourselves," she demanded, feinting bravery.

"No one up here but us tree fairies...uh...making cookies," said the first voice, appearing to attempt to sound feminine (and failing miserably).

"That was the best you got?" said the second voice, clearly pissed off. "And elves make the cookies. Haven't you seen those Keebler Elf commercials?" The voice was right, Rachel thought. She loved those commercials.

"I don't see you coming up with any bright ideas."

"Hey, as much I love hearing this," Rachel started, climbing up a bit more, "do you think that...ahh...you!" She had just caught sight of who was up there. It looked like Crazy Girl wasn't happy with just invading her pool; now she wanted to invade her tree house as well. What was next: going up into her room and rummaging through her bras?

"There is a very good explanation for this," said Crazy Girl.

"Please don't fire me," said Noah, who was revealed to be the other person.

"I am calling the police," Rachel informed them both. She started back down and was near the bottom when she found herself unable to move. "What is going on?!"

"You are stuck on a nail," Noah said, and Rachel thought that he was just trying to distract her, until she looked and saw that she was in fact stuck. To be more accurate, a loose nail had pierced right through the elastic of her panties and held firm.

"Oh my god!" Rachel screamed, acting far more dramatic than she should, but it could not be helped; this was just too much to take in, making even last week's pool incident pale in comparison. She attempted to pull away, hoping that it would come undone—but no such luck.

"Stop struggling. You are only making it worse," said someone—who she didn't know...nor care; she was too busy trying to get free. Finally, in a desperate attempt to get free, she let herself fall...and she was killed as soon as her body made contact with the ground.

Okay, that might be a bit of an exaggeration. But what did happen made Rachel wish that the small impact had ended her life.

Now the fall did hurt, but it was no more than a few bruises on her thighs and glutes—nothing major. Not that she was focused on that. You see—somehow, and she had no idea how, as it seemed to suspend on disbelief—her panties had been ripped clean from her body and continued to hang from that sole nail.

Time felt like it was standing still. Rachel could only sit there...in pain...and embarrassment—her junk on display for her uninvited guests to gawk at. Until finally:

"What the fuck, Berry?!" It was probably Noah who said it, as he climbed down after that, offering up his hand to her in the process.

She reluctantly accepted, doing her best to avoid eye contact with him. Now two people knew her horrid secret—and even worse, one of them was someone she saw fairly regularly.

"Is that a..." he stuttered, his gaze fixed on her male organ. Little Rachel didn't react at all to him; a strong contrast to the crazy girl. That made Rachel a little uncomfortable...though she blamed her lack of erection on the stress—and prayed that she was right. Damn penis: getting hard for crazy girls but not badboy, pool cleaners.

"Yes," she said, very reluctantly, figuring that there was no point in lying now that it was all (literally) out in the open.

"If I still have a job then I will forget what I saw."

"Fine. Just leave."

"Roger."

He left without another word, leaving Rachel to deal with just one intruder." You can come down now!"

"Wow," said Crazy Girl as she made her descent down, and Rachel couldn't help but notice that her golden locks seemed to shimmer in the mid-evening light. Once she was on terra firma, she turned to Rachel. "Nice to see you again," she said, before looking down. "And you, too."

Rachel wanted to say something...anything and probably would have—had it not been for someone choosing that moment to wake up and greet the guest.

"Your dingy really likes me." Crazy Girl has a smug grin on her face as she spoke and...gawked.

"That makes one of us," Rachel said with a grumble, her cheeks burning hotter than coals from the fires of hell. It was even more embarrassing than their first encounter—at least she hadn't been the only naked one that time. "So, is there a reason that you broke onto my property...again?!"

Crazy Girl didn't respond right away; she seemed fixated on Little Rachel—who was not even fully erect, though it gave Rachel hope that she wasn't a size queen...or at least not finicky in what kind of dicks she liked. "I feel like we got off on the wrong foot," she finally said.

"Really? I didn't think that at all." Rachel used her highly sarcastic voice as she spoke.

"So, and I know you already turned me down, but why don't we...hang?"

Rachel looked to the girl, her first reaction being "not a chance in fucking hell" but then reconsidered, figuring that if she didn't agree the girl would just keep trying asinine schemes like this. "Well, I am free this Friday if—"

"Great," she interrupted. "I'll pick you up at eight. We can do something." She started walking towards the gate—that for some reason, likely because of Noah—was unlocked. She was almost there when she turned back around. "I am looking forward to getting to see you both."

That left Rachel confused...until she realized what she had been implying. She wanted to tell Crazy Girl that, even though she had seen...that part of her twice, there was no way in hell that she would be seeing it for their...whatever...but never got the chance—as she had already left.

So now it looked like Rachel had a...well...she didn't want to call it a date. Not that she would have a problem if it was a date; it was just too soon for her and—

That was when it dawned on her: she never learned Crazy Girl's name! And now she had a possible date with her.

Damn!

"Try to contain yourself around her," she said to her still slightly erect member as she headed back, not bothering to retrieve her panties that were still hanging like a flag at half mast.

The twitch she got in response seemed to indicate that her penis wasn't making any promises—especially when it came to that girl.


	3. This is my Rifle

Rachel was already having second thoughts, even as she brought her Camry to a stop. And those doubts continued to escalate as she pulled her gearshift into park. The doubts grew so much that it tempted her to pull back out and keep driving on; maybe start a new life on the road as a drifter. And after she traded her car for a motorcycle then she she could really hit the open roads—with her gang. Beer, babes, brawls. What a life it will be.

Rachel stopped fantasizing long enough to replay what she just thought...and burst out laughing. Even she could admit that she sometimes delved into the realm of "being overly dramatic." And it also made her realize that she was putting too much thought into what she was about to do.

_I have nothing to be nervous about_, she thought, and repeated it twice and then thrice as she she rolled up the windows (can never be too careful) and shut off the engine. She ended up having to repeat it a fourth and fifth time as she locked the door and headed to her..._destination_.

"Suck it up, Berry," a voice in her head said as she grew closer; it made her stop to question if she was going insane, but she still heeded the advice and (literally), inhaled deeply. That proved to be a mistake—the air around these parts was thick with smog, brought on by the majority of the Lima residents driving gas guzzling SUVs and pick-up trucks. And what a sight it must have been for everyone else, watching her cough and sputter like a chain smoker that just finished off an entire pack in one sitting.

And by the time that Rachel had finished her little episode, she discovered that her leg muscles seemed to have been acting of their own accord, since she was now standing at the crossroads of her destiny—smack dab between two sets of automatic doors: one with a sign above reading **Enter**, the other with one reading **Exit**.

_I did make a promise,_ she thought as she watched the automatic door open...automatically—just like its name indicated. And then she ran...a full two feet, diving into the door as if she was Indiana Jones and the doors were spiked walls that were about to mince her into bite sized pieces.

That little stunt ended up costing her—as in her balance, and she she ended up falling on her ass as a result. She also gained a few "what the fuck is that girl on" looks from nearby patrons. But she didn't care...she did it...she conquered her fear and came to the last place in the world that she wanted to be at. She did have a promise to fulfill, after all.

"Welcome to Walmart," said a uniform clad, middle aged man, speaking in a less than enthusiastic voice as Rachel passed by him.

Rachel gave the greeter a warm smile as she looked for a buggy that didn't wobble, but he didn't return it. In fact, he looked none to pleased to see her; Rachel didn't know if it was because of her falling down performance or because the man just detested young people in general. Either way the man wasn't exactly being career orientated.

But Rachel thought nothing of it, and after finding a buggy that didn't wobble—only squeaked—she headed into the labyrinth of savings; a place of terror and despair, one that housed many evil, bloodthirsty creatures.

And that actually wasn't an exaggeration.

X—X—X—X—X

_I'm such a bad girl_, Rachel thought as she ran away from the scene of the crime. There had been a display of _Simply Apple _brand apple juice, along with a few bottles for purchasing and numerous tiny sample cups that sat next to a sign saying: _Take_ _One_. But Rachel didn't take one; no she did a much, much naughtier thing...

...she took two!

She hadn't felt this mischievous since her little skinny dipping incident. If this kept up she may end up doing something really wicked, like watching an R-rated movie without adult supervision.

Once she had downed the two cups of warm juice, which were actually not very good, she wheeled her squeaky buggy down the isles, going past creams, cleansers and condoms, finally stopping when she caught sight of something that she needed. And feeling a blush come on, she let her eyes roam the isles to make sure that no one was looking before she grabbed the box she needed and put it in her cart, doing her best to look nonchalant.

And as she hurriedly wheeled herself away from the dreaded shelves filled with the products that men would never have to use, she could only think about how unfair it was; you would think that not having to endure a period would be a fair trade off for being cursed with a penis, but no, she got stuck with both—talk about the worst of both worlds.

Thinking about her curse (the penis one, not the one that made her bleed and crave McNuggets, which she wouldn't eat because it defiled her vegan beliefs), she was reminded that Noah knew. It was bad enough that Crazy Girl found out, but it was even worse with someone that she went to Temple with—especially considering he could easily go back on his word if he wanted to.

Rachel had been making her way down the toothpaste isle while thinking about what to do in the Noah situation. At least she was until she felt herself collide with another buggy, creating a loud clash that sounded a lot like two cymbals being banged together by a gorilla Once her heart had stopped racing, she looked over check for causalities.

"I got whiplash, I'm suing," said a gruff male voice. "Shit, it's just Berry." The person revealed himself to be Marcus, the eighteen year old stoner, who, despite being two years older than her, was actually a grade below her in school—and dumber than an American version of a British television show. He was also the captain of the track team and the first ever McKinley captain to lead the team to a perfect season...of losing. Not that that ever seemed to bother the team, probably because they had a reputation for always being high as a kite when the meets were going on.

"Nice try, Marcus," Rachel said with a scoff. She shot the most menacing glare she could muster at him, as well as a slightly less menacing glare at his four idiotic followers that stood behind him, feeling a sense of nausea at the sight of them. Marcus had asked her out repeatedly in her Freshman year, but she turned him down every time; it had nothing to do with her "condition," she just didn't like the guy—at all. And she could imagine the mayhem that would have resulted if she ever did accept and he found out about Little Rachel—that could start a chain of events whose end result was a psycho girl forcing Rachel to impregnate her (talk about an indecent proposal).

"I heard your homo dads are out of town," he said as he leaned over his buggy in what Rachel could only assume was a piss-poor attempt at looking "alluring", though all Rachel could focus on was the numerous tattoos scattered across his sleeveless arms—ink seemed cover ninety percent of the delt/tri/bi area.

"How did you hear that?"

"He stood in a tree and looked through your window with binoculars," volunteered one of his followers, who then backed up when Marcus raised a fist at him.

Rachel felt herself grow uncomfortable—more-so than when she first saw him. There would be no stopping him if he knew her secret. She would have to take better measures for securing her property; perhaps look into a guard dog that was trained to attack at the smell of marijuana and failure.

"So, when are you going to invite me over to use your pool; I can show you the new tattoo I got," he said, then lowered his voice. "It's in a place that I don't display to the public."

Rachel shuddered. "Why don't you go jump in a lake; it'll probably be the first bath that you've had in a long while."

"You can drop the playing hard to get act—you've already won me over."

She was about to respond with some choice words when she happened to glimpse into his buggy, getting a gander at nasal decongestant, iodine, drain cleaner, lighter fluid and lithium batteries; it didn't take a genius to know what he was planning.

"Hey, aren't those the ingredients for—"

Marcus suddenly turned away from her. "Nice talking with you. Message me when you stop being a cunt and will let me tap that sweet ass." And just like that he was wheeling away, his goons running after him like the brainless sheep that they were.

That was one crisis averted, and she was glad that it didn't turn into something more. Now she could go to the electronics and see if there was any rom-coms that she could add to her already extensive collection; might as well get some enjoyment out of this trip.

X—X—X—X—X

"Almost done," Rachel said to herself as she put an extra large package of granola in her buggy and checked it off her mental list. All she left to get was her precious soy milk, then she could leave this hell hole.

Off to the dairy isle she went!

It was a treacherous journey—one were she passed shelves full of spaghetti sauce, laundry detergent and teeth rotting cereals. But she was grateful. Grateful that she had gotten through this shopping trip with only minimal contact from others. Even better, she could see the dairy freezers up ahead. And seeing them up ahead made her start skipping. She skipped past the Goldfish crackers and the Chips-Ahoy! cookies and the Redi-Whip, which was also where her arch-enemy Santana Lopez was standing. And Santana wasted no time in grabbing her and pulling her back.

"Someone better alert Snow White that she is missing a dwarf," Santana said as she pierced Rachel's arm with five razor sharp nails.

"He...he...eey, Santana," Rachel choked out, smiling nervously and trying not to let her fear be known. Though she ended up making a huge blunder when she made direct eye contact with Santana's pernicious brown eyes; the same eyes that held animosity reserved just for Rachel. "I heard you were made Head Cheerio." Rachel hoped to use this information to distract Santana and would also (hopefully) give her a chance to inch away so that there was some distance between them—that way she had enough room to make a full blown sprint for the front door.

And it seemed to work, as Santana's malevolent grin softened, though only for a second. "What, oh, yeah. Coach Sylvester told me I was conniving, petty and vindictive—everything she looks for in a head bitch." Now she had a full blown toothy grin going on; it made her look like a demon posing for a tooth paste commercial.

"That's great." Rachel piled on as much enthusiasm as possible; her plan was actually appearing to be working.

"And Coach especially liked what I did to the other girl to get the position. Want to see what it was?" Santana jerked her closer, so close that Rachel could make out the peeling skin on Santana's neck: no doubt a result of spending many hours in the skin cancer causing tanning beds.

"N...n...no. I'm good." Rachel felt a large bead of sweat trickle down her brow. She tried to move, just a step, but her legs had turned to gelatin—coincidentally on sale for sixty-four cents a box.

"I insist." Santana let go long enough to grab a handful of Rachel's gold star t-shirt and then jerked her forward, painfully tugging her past Greek yogurt and cottage cheese, finally stopping when they got to the freezers that housed the two percent milk.

"This is really not necessary—I trust your word." That was the last thing that Rachel said before she found her face being shoved into the frigid glass door—her nose especially feeling the combination of the numbing cold and the agony that resulted when she made impact against the hard glass. And though you would think that they would cancel one another out, they didn't.

"Actually, this was easier with the other girl—she didn't have your massive schnoz to get in the way."

Rachel tried to respond, but it just came out as muffled gibberish with the tiniest bit of whimpering. She prayed that Santana would grow bored and let her go, though that was a long shot—especially when you based it against her history of spending numerous lunch periods lying face first in the freshly mowed lawn, accompanied by three Cheerios sitting on top of her, one of them always being Santana. It looked like there was no hope for her.

"Hey, why don't you leave her alone?!" said a voice that, even in Rachel's uncomfortable state, was highly recognizable. And for once Rachel was happy to hear it.

Even better, the sudden appearance of her, or at least her voice, was enough to make Santana let go. And Rachel, never one to waste an opportunity, peeled herself off the door and spun around to observe what could only be described as the most intense stare down since Pacquiao vs. Cotto.

"Who's gonna make me?" Santana demanded, her voice containing a mixture of anger and what Rachel could only assume was curiosity, likely because no one ever challenged Santana's alpha girl status...and lived to tell about it.

"Me," Crazy Girl said, standing tall and proud. Rachel hated to admit it (a lot), but she was impressed...and the slightest bit turned on.

"You best do a one-eighty and pretend that you never saw nothin'," Santana said. "That is unless you want to be the next one that I go Lima Heights Adjacent on." Double negatives and threatening to go LHA on her—it was the Santana Lopez equivalent of the kiss of death.

"Is that supposed to scare me?" Crazy Girl looked indifferent at Santana's declaration, and Rachel could not help but think: _Yes! Be afraid! _She knew that anyone else in this situation—male or female—would have pissed themselves by now.

"If you are smart it will."

"I'm from the baddest city in the world." Crazy Girl lynched forward. "In L.A. you'd be as intimidating as a girl scout robbing a newsstand with a water pistol." Now she was in Santana's face; the two were close enough to kiss (which Rachel desperately hoped they didn't do).

"Oh?" was all Santana said in response, and Rachel could have sworn that she heard slightest bit of hesitance in her voice. Could the great Santana Lopez: the self proclaimed toughest bitch in school, be afraid of Crazy Girl?

"That's right." Crazy Girl, on the other hand, stood tall and dauntless, not even batting an eyelash; Rachel was right on the line between being impressed at her courageousness and empathetic at her lack of functioning brain cells.

The dairy aisle had suddenly become silent, save the humming that the freezer was making. Rachel was more than a little in awe—not only that there was someone who had the balls to stand up to Santana but also that not a single employee had walked by and put a stop to this little confrontation; it was no wonder that this particular Walmart had some of the worst net profits of the entire Walmart east-coast branch.

Santana ended up being the first one to break the silence. "Whatever, I got better things to do." She started walking away and had just passed the shelf that housed an impressive selection of pudding cups when she turned around. "You best watch yourself," she said in Rachel's direction. "Goldilocks won't always be around to fight your battles for you." And then she was gone, though not before knocking several packages of tapioca off the shelf and onto the floor.

Rachel sighed loudly. "I can't believe that just happened." She was saying it to herself more than anything.

Crazy Girl, who was still sporting a pissed off scowl, turned in Rachel's direction. "I just couldn't stand to see that bitch do you like that."

"It's fine, really. I'm used to it." Rachel was half telling the truth—she was used to it, though she wouldn't say that she was fine; who would be? But she wasn't about to let Crazy Girl know that and risk her starting something with Santana again. Even if Santana backed off today, who was to say that she wouldn't come back...with reinforcements?

"Well, I'm glad I could help." Crazy Girl's malice seemed to have dissipated, based on the grin that had manifested. "So, shopping, huh?"

_Damn, small talk,_ thought Rachel. She hated small talk—the one exception being when it was a discussion about one of her performances. But, on the other hand, Crazy Girl did save her, so you could say that she had, perhaps, an _obligation. _"Just grabbing a few things, which reminds me." She went over to the freezers, walking past the one that still bore an imprint of her face, and retrieved a carton of her favorite flavor of Silk, which she then held in the light to ensure that she was getting one that wasn't about to expire (this Walmart had a reputation for housing expired merchandise).

"Soy milk?"

That almost made Rachel drop her carton. Crazy Girl had what could be described as an equivocal look on her face, almost like she was thinking: "You drink that shit?!" It slightly miffed Rachel.

"It grows on you," Rachel finally said. "And contains none of those horrible growth hormones." She wondered if this would start an ethical debate on animal cruelty and what the government was putting in their food; Rachel was never afraid to throw down, just ask the butcher, the woman at the deli or half the fast food employees in this town.

"I never cared much for milk. I've always been a juice kind of girl—especially cranberry. Now Crazy Girl looked as if she regretted ever bringing it up, and Rachel was slightly disappointed—she hadn't had a good debate (outside the IMDB forums) in weeks.

And not knowing what else to say, Rachel remained silent and walked back to her buggy, soy milk in tow. Once she had carefully set it down next to her MorningStar Farms Grillers: Vegan Burgers (try saying that five time fast), she pushed her buggy until it was rotated and facing the opposite direction—the direction of the checkout lane, which would then lead her out of this horrible place.

And Crazy Girl must have sensed her eagerness to leave, because she said, "Hey, I'm new around here and not really familiar with how this place is set up. Could ya' possibly show a new girl where everything is?" The way she said it, along with the way her hazel eyes seemed to glimmer, it made Rachel feel like she would be a worse person than the man who wouldn't let Oliver Twist have more food if she said no to her.

"I guess I can. If you really want—" Before Rachel could finish that sentence she found that there were suddenly two more hands on her buggy. Two soft looking hands that had a nice manicure: probably from one of those fancy salons in L.A. And that reminded her of something. "Did you really move here from L.A.?"

"No, I just told that bitch that. I'm actually from San Diego, though I did spend a summer in L.A. once...hated it."

"San Diego?" Rachel didn't really know if it was a question, statement or otherwise, but she went with it. And the very mention of the place seemed to spark something in Crazy Girl; it was like looking at a starving cat that was just given a free meal at a sashimi buffet.

"San Diego, it's the greatest place in the world. We have the best restaurants, the best stores, the best zoo...obviously. And yes, I know, all our sports teams suck. But, in spite of that, it is still the best place ever." The way she was acting, thought Rachel, it looked like she was filming one of those annoying commercials for California—the kind that used B-list celebrities to mention how great the state was.

"You must really miss that place." And seeing Crazy Girl's happiness vanish as fast as it came, Rachel knew that she said the wrong thing; in fact Crazy Girl almost looked like she was on the verge of tears. Rachel couldn't have that. "Hey, I'm sorry. I didn't know that—"

"It's fine," she interrupted. "It's not your fault. Anyway, we should finish our shopping." She didn't give Rachel a chance to answer and pulled away from the buggy and started speed walking ahead.

Rachel considered rushing after her but ultimately decided to stay behind for a moment to organize her thoughts. It looked like talking about San Diego was a soft spot, and Rachel made herself a mental note to not bring it up; nor would she bring up the Clippers, as that would likely depress Crazy Girl even if she was still living in San Diego.

That taken care of, she grabbed the buggy and rushed to catch up, though she ended up stopping (and grinning) when she caught sight of several policeman, one whom was dragging away a cuffed Marcus while he shouted out: "Circumstantial evidence!" over and over.

X—X—X—X—X

Quinn tried to keep herself together. It wasn't Pool Girl's fault. It really wasn't. There was no way that she could have known how much San Diego meant to her. And Quinn knew that she had to control her emotions better; she had already made a deplorable impression—no thanks to the skinny dipping and tree house incidents. It wouldn't surprise Quinn at all if Pool Girl thought that she was insane or something.

It was then that Quinn remembered that she had left her basket behind when she rushed to save Pool Girl from that bitchy Latina chick. She hoped that it was still where she left it—since she couldn't remember what she had already gotten, and she really didn't want to get bitched at for coming home with the wrong groceries.

But, after returning to the last place she had been—the freezers that housed breakfast meats—she was relived to see it still sitting there, safely next to a display of Hostess Twinkies and Zingers.

_I love Zingers_, she thought as she selected a box of the raspberry kind and placed it in her basket. Her mom would most certainly have at her for buying non-approved junk food, but she didn't care—there were very few things in life that you could count on to always be there, and Hostess products were one of them.

Now it was time to get the real shopping done. She checked her basket, which, upon looking inside, was revealed to have nothing but the box of Zingers and four packets of her favorite food—bacon. Come to think of it, bacon had been the reason that she was here in the first place; it had started this morning, right after she had complained that she was sick of cold cereal and toast for breakfast and demanded to know when she was going to get bacon again. She had no idea that her mom would use that as an excuse to make her do the grocery shopping.

It's not that Quinn had anything against shopping. No, she just preferred the kind that involved clothes, electronics and new cars—especially if it was for that gorgeous cherry-red Miata Convertible that she been hinting to her mother to get her for her birthday. The car that she could Just think about to got her motor running (no pun intended).

And thinking about said car did in fact get Quinn's motor running (again, no pun intended).

Oh_ fuck yes! _she thought, closing her eyes so that she could visualize it to the full effect. In her mind the images played like clips on Youtube: gliding down the highway at 55, more if the cops weren't out; her long blonde hair flowing in the wind; maybe even a certain someone next to her in the passenger seat while she had one arm on the steering wheel.

She continued to daydream as she walked—which she was aware was a bad idea. And she was reminded just how bad of an idea it was when she felt her body make impact with something...or someone. And it was not a light bump—it was a full on collision that knocked her to the ground.

"Goddammit!" she moaned in agony; the wind had been knocked out of her and everything had gone dark (thought the latter might just be because she had her eyes closed). She tried to move, primarily to make sure that nothing was broken but found that she was pinned down. And judging by what was pressing into her thigh, it was safe to presume that it was a person of the male species.

And then a certain incident involving a loose nail, a tree house and a pair of white cotton panties played back in her mind.

Could her luck really be that bad?

Now she was afraid to open her eyes. But, reluctantly—very reluctantly—she started to. _Come_ _on_, she thought,_ the chance that it will be her is probably the same as winning the lottery or Michael Bays directing a movie that isn't a shitfest_. But, as Quinn once again found out, logic goes straight out the door when it deals with a certain girl who is in possession of..._one of those._

There she was, looking surprisingly comfortable: her head resting on Quinn's chest; her tantalizingly long legs dangling off the size, and, of course, her...you know what, still pressing into Quinn's thigh—and call Quinn crazy, but it felt like it had gotten even bigger. Was Pool Girl getting a hard-on from this?

Quinn didn't get to find out, because, before she could attempt to make any more movement, she heard: "I'm sorry. I can't believe this happened twice in one day. I'm so damn clumsy. It's this fuckin' broken heel on my shoe. I wish I could find a cobbler, but I can't—you know, since it's 2010 and all. And I should have—"

Quinn stopped listening and started focusing her attention on what was pressing into her leg. It wiggled like a fish on land—almost like it wanted to be free of its confines. Quinn found herself mesmerized.

"Uh, Crazy Girl, could you stop starring at my...thingamadoo and help me up?"

At that very moment Quinn felt as if her heart had stopped. Shit! It looked like she had ogled a little too long. And trying to fight the blush that was seeping through, she utilized all the upper body strength that she had (which wasn't much) and pulled her body upright, taking Pool Girl with her, who then had no problem standing up on her own (which made Quinn wonder why she didn't just do that in the first place).

And once Quinn was also standing on two feet, she asked, "Did you call me Crazy Girl?" She had been pretty sure that she had heard that, though her hearing wasn't exactly top notch—her mom claimed that it was a result of years worth of playing her music on full blast.

"You broke onto my property to skinny dip in my pool. Then you got someone else to help you break in again. And...uh...you don't think I'm a freak for having..." She pointed to her still erect..._thingamadoo_. "...this."

"You are not a freak." Quinn spoke without hesitation, and she meant what she said. "You are...amazing." She was aware that she was coming off sounding like a "very special" episode of Sesame Street; the only thing missing was for Elmo and Big Bird to appear and sing a song about how it is okay for a girl to have functioning male genitalia.

"You're just saying that."

"No," Quinn said firmly. "I mean it." She found herself moving closer...so close that she had to look down, getting an eyeful of those luscious lips. Lips that made Quinn want to bend down and—

"So, what have you been calling me?"

"Huh...What?" Quinn jerked back on instinct. She felt so many things at this moment: embarrassment, stupidity, a deep seated sense of self loathing and...worse of all...a burning in her loins. But she could play it off. "Oh...I called you...Pool Girl, remember?"

"Oh yeah, back at the salad bar." She appeared to space out for a moment, probably recalling that day and all that happened. Quinn hated remembering it—the sting of rejection was not pleasant; being a girl she didn't think she'd ever have to experience it. "So, what is your actual name?"

"It's Lu...Quinn! My name's is Quinn," she said, quickly correcting herself. "Quinn Fabray." She couldn't believe that..._that _almost slipped out!

"Hello, Quinn. My name is Rachel Barbara Berry." She held her hand out to Quinn, as if they were meeting for the first time—and to be honest, Quinn would much prefer it that way; just leave the horrible past behind.

"So nice to meet you," Quinn said, accepting..._Rachel's _hand. _So soft,_ she thought, j_ust like those lips. _

"Well," Rachel said, pulling her hand away, "we better finish our shopping." She looked to be just the slightest bit uncomfortable—something that greatly saddened Quinn.

"Right." She accompanied this with a smile, though she sure as fuck was not smiling on the inside. Deep in her head, her conscious—which she likened would manifest as a miniature version of herself—was screaming, running around and kicking random things, while also stopping to bellow out: "Wattaya waitin' far makka fackin' moves allsready!" (Yes, she envisioned that her conscious would speak like a pissed off Willie from the Simpons; why she didn't know.)

And soon, after spilled items were picked up and bodies were checked for visible bruising, they were off to do more shopping and the likes. Quinn wished that they were conversing, even pointless small talk would do. Anything would be suitable to drown out the voice in her head that kept screaming out that she was stuck in the friend zone.

X—X—X—X—X

"Which car is yours?" Rachel asked once they had left the comfortable, air conditioned store to go out into the scorching parking lot.

"The red Beetle," Quinn responded as she pushed the buggy with her forearm. "I always park in the back—easier to get in and out."

That made Rachel turn and give what Quinn could only assume was a look of awe. "So do I."

Seeing Rachel's big brown eyes sparkle...Quinn didn't know why but it really brightened up her mood and killed the funk that seemed to have cultivated ever since Quinn convinced herself that she and Rachel would only ever be friends. Maybe there was still was a chance that the two of them could be—

"That your car?"

"Huh...what..." Quinn could hardly believe that so many of her fantasies had been interrupted. And when her confusion wore off, she looked to see Rachel's skinny arm pointing straight out, making her look like a crossing guard with rigor mortis. Rachel pointed to a red car, parked crookedly so that it was slightly going over the white line. That meant that it was, without a doubt, her car; Quinn could never stay in the white line, which was rather pathetic when you considered how small a Beetle was. "...oh, yeah. That's my car, alright."

"You feeling okay?" Rachel asked, concern in her voice. "This heat must be getting to you; you look like you are burning up."

Rachel was half right—Quinn was burning up, though it wasn't the heat that was getting to her.

"I'm fine." Quinn realized, almost immediately, that her response came out a little too snarky and far too defensive. And Rachel scooting away served to further drive that point home. _Dumbass_, she thought, mentally scolding herself.

Neither spoke the rest of the way to the car. Quinn feared that she fucked things up, but she also knew better than to say anything else and risk making it worse. That's why she just kept quiet, opened the trunk and started putting her bags in. Her's were easy to discern: Rachel was using those recyclable bags while she went with the classic plastic kind. Rachel had looked at her funny when she did that—like using plastic bags was comparable to demolishing a rainforest to build a factory that would pollute the air...or some other Captain Plantet like bullshit.

Though Quinn was mildly relieved when Rachel started helping put the bags in the trunk, figuring that it meant that they were at least still on good terms. At least that was until another thought occurred: _What if she is helping so she can get away from you faster?_

And not wanting that to be the case, Quinn spoke, "So this was cool...getting to know you better and all. I'm glad we ran into each other." She hoped that she didn't come off sounding like a maniac or anything—otherwise Rachel might start thinking of her as Creepy Girl or some shit like that.

"Me too," Rachel said, and she looked and sounded like she meant it. "I hope we are still on to hang out."

Hearing that almost made Quinn drop the last bag—the one that housed her precious bacon; she had forgotten all about that. "Of course." She stuck the bag on her forearm and spun it around exactly four times—a nervous habit of hers. "But it doesn't necessarily meant that we can't do something...before that." She then quickly added, "I mean if you don't want to I'll under—"

"My dads are out of town."

"What?" Quinn was more than a little confused. Was Rachel trying to deter the subject because she didn't want to spend time with her?

Rachel must have picked up on her confusion, because she then said, "They are out on business, so...um...we'd have my house...you know...to ourselves." Rachel looked at her shoes as she said the last part.

Quinn tried to contain herself. This was like the setup to an 80s coming of age movie were two teens proclaim that they will do _it _while they have an empty house; just replace herself with Molly Ringwald and Rachel with Mathew Broderick. But she knew better than to set her sights that high off the get-go.

"Yeah, that's cool. I mean I'm free and whatever," Quinn said, and then crossed her arms—though on the inside she was screaming at herself for spontaneously deciding to go the apathetic route. She likened that she was the second biggest fuck-up ever—the first, of course, being whomever told Will Ferrell that he should star in movies.

But then Rachel giggled—an oh so sweet giggle—and Quinn felt slightly better. "Well, you know where I live...obviously. But this time try the front door."

Quinn could only nod. She didn't want to say anything else—there was no telling what other moronic things her retched mind might think up, so she kept mute and waved as Rachel left with the buggy.

And when Rachel was clear out of sight, and Quinn was sure that she wasn't coming back, she got in her car, started it up, turned on the A.C. (since it was like a fucking sauna inside) and bellowed out: "Yes!" repeatedly, and accompanied this with some highly out of character child like squealing.

That eventually got tiring, so she started on home. She didn't bother to turn the radio on—there was no way that she could focus on music with all the thoughts flooding in her head. Though one thought stood out: _I wonder if we have any bananas at home._

And it wasn't like Quinn was counting on..._that_ to happen, nor anything else of the nature. But it never hurt to be prepared.

X—X—X—X—X

It had never occurred to Rachel, at the time anyway, that she should have asked Quinn for a cell number. Or an email address. Or even if she wanted to send messages back and forth via owls (ala Harry Potter). Anything would have sufficed.

And since Rachel hadn't thought to ask any of that, she had no idea when Quinn was going to come over—or even if she still wanted to; which meant that she was forced to play a game that she hated more than Yahtzee—the waiting game! Rachel tended to get antsy when she had to wait; couple that with the humidity, which had left the house in an insufferable state of being. In fact, had anyone been observing her—the way she wiggled around on the couch, turning over every other minute, her arms and legs flailing like a drowning person—they would have likely believed her to be having a stroke.

"Why is it so fuckin' hot?" said asked the couch cushion of which her face was buried into. She didn't know why Mother Nature was punishing her particularly, especially considering she drove a compact car and always sorted her recyclables. It gave her half a mind to turn on the air conditioner just to let that bitch know what's what.

But she didn't. Instead she just continued to lie in a pool of her own sweat and self pity, and when that got to be too intolerable she pulled herself up to look out the screen door, looking past a few rows of wilting petunias to gaze at the pool. She felt (highly) tempted to strip to her birthday suit, take a running start and do a swan dive—plunging to the bottom and not coming up until her need for oxygen demanded it.

Now all she could think about was that frigid water: the way it would just sorta make those tiny little waves...waves that would smack against her skin...her nipples...other...lower places.

A sudden..._dampness_ in her panties alerted her to two possibilities: either all her perspiration had gathered in her crotch or she was..._aroused! _

_Shit!_ she thought, hoping and praying that it wasn't the latter. And then hesitantly, very hesitantly—as in the kind of hesitant state you'd be in if you were going to pet a hungry lion while wearing a suit made of rib-eye, she pushed her hand past the waistline of her shorts, stopping when she made it to the crotch area of her panties, immediately feeling said dampness as her fingers skimmed it. And then, just as hesitantly, she brought her hand back up and...took a whiff.

She wasn't doing it to be perverted, just observant. And she sure as hell could observe what she just smelled. It was the smell of sex. And what a strong smell it was.

"Shit!" she said, yet again. She could feel herself grow embarrassed. First she was getting boners at the sight of Cr...Quinn, and now her vayjayjay wanted to join in on the fun.

But there was the teensiest of silver linings: at least it was her female parts that were acting up; it was a nice change of pace. Little Rachel tended to make her forget that she even had a vagina.

Of course there was also the matter of what to do in this..._predicament. _She could go the easy route and ignore it, the same way she did whenever she got an involuntarily boner. Or she could..."take care of business," so to speak.

She took a look around the living room, paying special attention to the ugly stained glass vase that Hiram had brought home the day before him and Leroy went away. "Got it for a steal," he had claimed as he shoved aside a potted planet to make room for the monstrosity. "The guy was practically giving it away at fifty bucks." At the time Rachel had considering telling him that he overpaid by about $49.95, then thought otherwise, mostly out of fear that it would discourage him from making his frequent shopping splurges—many were he came home with gifts for her. And looking at the thing, which was just as ugly as when she first saw it, she could not help but believe that it was a little too convenient that he came home with that thing the day before his big trip.

"There's no way that hideous thing could possibly have a camera inside it, can it?" she asked aloud, almost as if she was expecting someone to answer: "Yes, it can," back to her. Maybe it was her paranoia. Or her record with awkward situations were she was missing at least half her clothes. Either way it was enough to make her think twice.

But not enough to stop her.

"Well Dad and Daddy," she said, looking right at the vase—as if she was a contestant on Big Brother and confessing something to the audience, "looks like you guys are going to get a show." And as she pulled her shorts off and kicked them to the side, she figured that if her dads really were watching then they surely would have stopped by now.

And that also meant that she could get to work.

She wasted no time: within minutes her panties were on the floor, her legs were spread and her index and middle fingers were gliding over her walls at a moderate pace. All while Little Rachel remained surprisingly limp and inactivate, even after Rachel touched it a few times.

_Oh well,_ Rachel though with a shrug as she settled in deeper and plunged in. _Fuck!_

Soon her thumb found her clit and her pace quickened. She sunk even lower in the couch. Her walls tightened. She was forced to bite down. So wet! So tight! So—

_Clang! Clang! Clang!_

The noise slightly started Rachel—not enough to make her stop tickling her taco, but enough to make her slow her pace. Then she heard it again; there was no mistaking that was the sound of metal hitting against more metal. And unless two medieval knights were dueling with broadswords on her lawn, it could only mean that someone was knocking on the door with the clanger. And rather urgently, given the frequency of the knocks.

_Maybe whomever will go away,_ Rachel thought, feeling more than a little agitated. She started counting. Ten seconds passed. Then twenty. Then thirty. Then she stopped counting Mississippis in her head. The coast was clear.

"Whew!" she exclaimed aloud. To say that she was relieved would be an understatement. For a second she almost thought that she would end up in yet another SNAFU.

"Rachel? It's Quinn. You know...Crazy Girl? You home? I saw a Toyota out there. This a bad time?"

"Quinn, you out there?" The words left her mouth before she could stop herself. _Fuck! Fuck! Fuck! _she thought. Now there was no way for her to pretend that she wasn't home.

"Yes," Quinn responded, and it might have been the door barrier, but Rachel felt like she could hear some indignation in her voice. "You gonna let me in, or do I have to answer three riddles?"

"No...no...I'm coming!" Rachel sprang up and was halfway to the door when it occurred to her that she was bottomless. And though she had a hunch that Quinn wouldn't have a problem with that, it was still enough to make her rush back and grab her shorts. "Here I come!" After sticking her feet in them and bunny hopping her way to the door, pulling her shorts up as she hopped, she halted long enough to contain herself. _Play it cool,_ she thought as she undid the lock/deadbolt combo and wiggled the knob to open the door just a crack.

"About time," Quinn said once she had pushed the door the rest of the way open. She seemed to scan Rachel up and down, and not in an "you look damn fine today" kind of way. "You been working out or somethin'?"

Rachel was about to ask her to elaborate, at least until she caught sight of her own appearance in the reflection off the large mirror that was part of some feng shui shit. She did look like she had been in the midst of some hardcore pumping iron. Damn hormones and her need to tend to them.

"No, just the heat," Rachel lied, trying to keep her voice from breaking. She ushered Quinn inside with frantic waves of the hand, looking like a crossing guard that had been hitting the bottle on the job. And though Quinn looked hesitant, she accepted.

"Nice place," Quinn said as she looked around at the decor, "guess gay men do have good taste...Wait, is that offensive?"

Rachel nodded her head. "A little." She continued to guide Quinn, who was turning her head in astonishment as if the living room was the Louvre. Rather amusing. Imagine getting fascinated by a Gucci rug or an Italian leather recliner or her panties lying in the floor.

Wait...

Rachel did a double take and saw that it was true—there they were, lying in a heap of pink and white lace. Even worse, a certain stain was perfectly visible...even from where Rachel was standing. And since Quinn was right next to her...

"Did you see the Picasso over there!" Rachel said all a sudden, forcibly pointing Quinn in the opposite direction.

"Picasso? That's a blank wall."

"Yeah, it's abstract...get it? Haha." She fake laughed until she had managed to pull herself over enough to place her foot on top of the garment.

"Uh...yeah." Quinn sounded off put, and Rachel couldn't blame her—it was almost like they had traded personalities; it wouldn't surprise her if Quinn started thinking that she was the crazy one. "This heat must really be getting to you?"

"I'm fine." Rachel accompanied this with a frantic nod of the head. "Here, have a seat." While she ushered Quinn into a seat, she slid her cursed panties underneath the couch and took her own place on the couch.

"Right..." Quinn looked and sounded like she already regretted this visit; it was almost enough to make Rachel tell her the truth—almost.

Rachel cleared her throat. "So, Quinn..."

Quinn looked over. "Yes?"

"Uh...I actually didn't have anything to say." Rachel wondered if there was chance that the ceiling above her could come undone and crush her. Her erratic behavior was making all the asinine things that Quinn had done pale in comparison.

"Rach, there is something I have to say; I've been holding it in since I first arrived."

"What is it?" Her words came out sounding like an old broom being scraped across a squeaky floor, and it was probably even worse for Quinn.

Quinn reached over and took Rachel's right hand in her own, linking their fingers together; it made Rachel even more thankful that Quinn was oblivious of her previous activities. "Please don't get mad." Now Quinn was gazing into her eyes—brown meeting amber. "But can you please turn the air conditioner on?"

To say that Rachel was dumbfounded would be the understatement of the century. And she accompanied this confusion with:

"Huh?"

"I know, I know—high electric bill, money doesn't grow on trees, why don't you pay the bill and then you can turn it on 'till you freeze. My mom tells me that shit almost every day. Seriously, was the woman born on Venus or somethin'. 'Cause I don't know how the fuck she can—"

"Of course." Rachel jumped up, and since their fingers were still entwined, she ended up pulling Quinn's arm up with her. "I'd be glad to." Once they had separated, she dashed to the kitchen and ran to the control panel, located just below the paper and plastic bottle recycling bins (one thing that hurts the environment and one thing that helps it; Rachel could appreciate the irony in that). After a few turning of the switches and a bit of adjusting, she could hear the familiar rumbling—first low key, then ear drum splitting loud.

And hearing the machine blare its ghastly noises, she made a solemn vow to feed the birds in the park twice as much; maybe even plant a tree for good measure. Anything to offset all the destruction to nature that she was doing by running this environmental destroyer.

Eventually she felt a chill in the air, and that was enough to convince her that it was working, and after going to the freezer and retrieving a couple cans of freshly chilled 7Up, she headed back to the living room, where she saw her guest leaning her body on the headrest—and looking rather sexy doing so.

"Here," Rachel said as plopped back down in the spot where her two tiny ass cheeks had made an imprint and held out one of the cans for her guest. She felt as if a great weight had been lifted off her shoulder, though she didn't want to admit it, she was much more relaxed now that the room didn't feel like Death Valley.

"Thanks." Quinn happily accepted the can and wasted no time in cracking it open and taking a generous swig. "My mouth felt like cotton."

"No problem." Rachel popped the tab on her own can and took a small sip. "So..."

"Not this again." Quinn didn't sound pissed, maybe slightly annoyed, but not in the "I'll leave unless you entertain me in the next five minutes" way. But it still made Rachel realize that sitting on this couch and forcing small talk (which she hated) would not suffice for long. And save Hiram's collection of African art, there was little in this room to keep two teenage girls sufficiently entertained; which meant that Rachel would have to resort to slightly more drastic measures.

"You wanna go to my room. Maybe—"

"Yes." Quinn seemed a little too eager in her response. And she must have caught her own blunder, because she then said, "I mean, yeah, if you want to."

Rolling her eyes, Rachel rose up and gave the signal to follow, which Quinn did. Forward march, thought Rachel, and before she could stop herself, the chant from Full Metal Jacket began playing in her head.

_This is my rifle; this is my gun._

Rachel glanced down at her own "gun," who had not waken up, even after Quinn came over. But she had a feeling that all that would change once they got up to her bedroom...

...where they would be all alone.

And thinking about them alone together...in her bedroom...on top of her bed that was more than large enough for two people to move around in comfortably, only one thought came to mind:

_This is for fighting; this is for fun._


End file.
